


Just an Act

by Augustus



Series: Just an Act [1]
Category: The Bill
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-06-18
Updated: 2000-06-18
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augustus/pseuds/Augustus





	1. Chapter 1

I’ve never met anybody quite like Rodney Skase. And I’ve met a hell of a lot of people throughout my years with the Met. Nobody quite compares to the way that this guy – the very man standing in front of me at the moment – plays with my mind. Sometimes I think I hate him for it. Sometimes I’m not quite sure that’s the right way to describe the flood of emotion that always rushes through me when he’s around.

“What’s wrong, Sarge?” he asks me now, his tone sarcastic and his eyes mocking. “Need a little nap or something?”

I shake my head to shoot myself back into the present. I should really be concentrating on the task at hand, rather than on the peculiarities of my co-worker. 

“Leave the lip for the criminals, Rodney,” I throw back.

I don’t care how much this man confuses me. I can still give as good as I get. Always. I pride myself on the fact. Nobody’s going to ever get away with saying that John Boulton can’t fight – and win – his own battles. Even if they _are_ battles with a certain D.C. Skase.

“Right you are.”

He gives me another one of his looks. Those looks that suggest that the person on the receiving end is complete scum. Those looks that say something akin to ‘I’m the greatest’. And, in his own mind, this man is the greatest. Unfortunately, as his sergeant, I’m the one who has to fix things up when his self-assessment proves to be wrong. Which is quite often. Ego tends to get in the way of the judgement needed to be a good detective.

And I know that I should hate cleaning up after Rod a hell of a lot more than I do.

“Are you sure this snout of yours is reliable, Rod?” Chris Deakin asks from the table across from us.

Typical Deakin. Never willing to trust any of us. Especially not me. If this little excursion goes bust, you can be sure that it’s my knackers that will be on his knifing block. Not Rod’s. Never Rod’s. 

Personally, I think Deakin has a bit of a soft spot for ol’ Skasey. Probably wants in his pants. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Deakin wants in pretty much _everyone’s_ pants at some stage or another. I’m dreading the day he decides to turn his roving eyes on me.

“Of course he’s reliable,” Rod snarls now in response. 

Never one to enjoy being questioned, is our Rod.

“I wouldn’t have risked your awesome wrath if he wasn’t, would I, Gov?”

I stifle a chuckle. Deakin doesn’t seem to realise he’s being mocked. I wouldn't want to criticise my superiors - perish the thought - but Chris has never been the brightest copper around. I mean, getting yourself demoted for shagging the wife of your superior? Please! That's uniform territory, surely?

“And here I was just thinking that you wanted to spend the afternoon guzzling down weak coffee, Rodney,” I tease him.

“Ah, you caught me out, Sarge,” he replies sarcastically. “You know how much I love the stuff they serve in places like this.”

That’s Rod, alright. Can’t stand anything but the best. Except for when it comes to the dozy girls I’ve seen him around with. White trash through and through. You just know that the constant hair bleaching has done something highly detrimental to their brains. It’s always surprised me a little. I mean, Rod’s a very good-looking young lad. Surely he could pull something a lot more worthwhile if he put a little effort into it.

Gawd, I’ve always known the guy’s a lazy bastard. But there are some things surely worth paying a little more attention to! 

Duncan nudges me and nods in the direction of the door. "That him?" he asks in a stage whisper.

I try to look as though I'm just casting an idle appraising glance around the room. I pick our target out easily. It would be pretty hard to miss a head like his.

"Yep. That's Fielding alright."

I throw the other two a pointed look. Deakin just nods his acknowledgement, but Rod whips his head around as if he had just been bitten by something large and unattractive. 

"Easy, Rod," Deakin hisses. "You don't want to give the game away."

Rod casts a contemptuous glare in his direction, before returning his gaze to the coffee cup cradled between his hands. "Look, if Fielding was about to get suspicious, I think that the site of four men in suits in _this_ dive would do the job just as well," he snarls.

"Point taken, Rodney. _Unfortunately_ , this was a last minute operation. If you want to get your snouts to give us a little advance notice, then we'll all be able to dress _exactly_ how you want us to."

What? Don't tell me Deakin is actually going to win a struggle of the egos with Skase. Surely not.

"Trust me, Gov, you wouldn't have anything in your entire wardrobe."

Touché. I guess I spoke - thought - too soon.

"Shut up, Rod," I hiss, although I'm mentally applauding his efforts. "He's coming our way."

Our target conveniently sits himself down at the table right behind Deakin and Skase. I try to commit every detail of his appearance to memory, without looking like I'm doing so. Greasy blonde hair, bad taste in jeans, nose that's obviously been broken at least twice... An all-round good looking fellow. Almost enough to turn Rodney from his cheap floozies. Then again, I've never considered him as one to stray from the straight and narrow. But for a guy like Robert Fielding… I had to work hard to restrain a grin. As I said. Nothing but the best...

I lean forward, keeping my voice low. "So do you know who his contact is?" I ask Rod.

"Nah. My man didn't know. Well - that's what he said, anyway."

"Not even a hint?" I press.

"Nope. It was hard enough dragging _Fielding's_ name out of the scrote." 

I take a look at my watch. "He's late."

Rod rolls his eyes. "Big bloody surprise. That's the thing with criminals. They have absolutely _no_ sense of punctuality."

The sarcastic bastard. If it weren't for that mischievous glint in his eye, I'd be thinking about disciplinary action around about now. As it is, I just grin at him. I've always been a sucker for a scoundrel. 

I'm surprised when he grins back. It's not like Rodney to want to share a joke. He much prefers just to swim in a feeling of superiority. It feels good to be included.

Perhaps _too_ good.

The humour leaves his eyes as he redirects his gaze towards the door to the greasy spoon. "Here we go," he mutters, nudging Deakin who's more interested in the sandwich he's massacring than the goings on of this obbo.

Deakin flutters a glance towards the footsteps I can hear approaching us from behind. "Barratt," he sneers. "Should have guessed."

The name's only vaguely familiar to me. It came up on the computer in our hurried preparation for this little excursion, but I've had no dealings with the guy personally. I study the back of his head curiously as he eases himself into the seat opposite Fielding, effectively blocking the glorious view of the latter's head.

"Fielding," he nods.

"Barratt."

I have to strain my ears to hear their voices above the lower class din of the down and outs surrounding us. _God_ , Rod was right. We couldn't look more obvious if we tried.

"Is it on for tomorrow?" I can't see him to see the lips moving, but I recognise the voice as Fielding's. 

Barratt casts a nervous look around the room. Great. All we need now is for them to call this whole damn thing off, just because there's a bunch of suits sitting behind them. Damn Rodney's snout and his goddawful timing.

"It's all arranged," Barratt confirms eventually.

I exchange a frustrated look with Skase. "Give us a _place_ ," I mutter under my breath.

Yet another thing Rod's snout couldn't provide. Hence this expedition to this hell hole. Although why it took four of us I don't know. Typical Deakin. God forbid he might actually miss out on nabbing a major villain. You can be sure he'll be the one snapping the cuffs on if it comes to that. No matter that it's Skase's information. No matter that I'll be the one doing all the dirty work. Deakin's the one who will play hero in the end.

"Well, fill me in then."

I work hard to restrain a grin. Obviously Fielding is about as in the dark as we are.

Barratt darts another look around the greasy spoon. "Not 'ere," he snaps. "Too many flappin' ears."

I curse under my breath. Typical. Abso-bloody-lutely typical.

"Where then?" Fielding whines. "I'm a busy man, you know."

Barratt laughs dryly. "Yeah. Busy as buggery, _I'm_ sure."

"Fuck off, Barratt. What would you know, anyway?"

Oh well. The obbo may be a bust, but at least this little snippet of conversation is intriguing me.

"Ooh, a little touchy about matters of buggery, are you, Fielding?"

"I'm no faggot."

"No?" There's a dangerous tone to Barratt's voice. Despite myself, I can't help but be glad that I'm not the end of his comments. "Well, then, 'ow about we conclude this little discussion tonight? At the Gilded Cage."

"The where?"

I have to say I'm just as stumped. Sounds like a bloody pet shop with a name like that.

"The Gilded Cage. It's up on King Street. Near the Jasmine Allen."

"So it's a bar?"

When Barratt answers, his voice is like oil. "Yeah. You could say that."

"Okay. I'll see you there."

Fielding makes as if to leave, but Barratt reaches out to hold him back, his fingers clawing deep into the wool-covered flesh of his fellow crim's arm.

"Oh and Fielding," he says, as if an afterthought. "You might want to wear leather. The boys there seem to like that."

Fielding's eyes widen comically. "What the..."

"I'll be expecting you at eleven."

And with that little comment, he pushes Fielding aside and leaves. Fielding soon trails after him, looking almost as though he's just gone through a car wash. Without a car.

I almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost. Scum like him doesn't deserve my pity.

"Is this Gilded Cage place what it sounds like?" Duncan asks, raising an eyebrow curiously.

"It's a gay bar down near the Jasmine Allen," Deakin confirms. "Lots of leather, lots of drinking, lots of men looking for a good time."

"And you know this _how_ , Gov?" Rod asks insinuatingly, throwing me another one of those glances.

I resist the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. Goddamnit! What the buggery bollocks is wrong with me these days? Honestly, put me around monsieur Skase and I turn into a right prat!

Rod grins evilly as Deakin's usual pallor begins to change to a lovely rosy tone.

"Uh... I did a raid there. Before you fellows were around."

"Oh." Rod's tone sounds as disbelieving as my thoughts are.

Deakin coughs and quickly hurries into DI mode. "So who's up for some overtime tonight?" he asks, his voice more than a little strangled.

"Can't do it sorry, Gov," Duncan quickly jumps in. "The missus has told me that if I don't go visit her parents for dinner this time, I'm out on my arse."

"Rodney? John?"

"I'm in," I nod. "I could use the extra cash."

"Yeah, count me in too," Rod agrees. 

Deakin nods. "Good. I'll leave it up to you to organise it then, shall I, John?" Deakin asks casually. "I doubt you'll need me tagging along just to listen to a couple of blokes talking."

I sigh. Typical Deakin, once again. "Yeah, sure, Gov."

"Oh, and make sure you dress the part, fellows."

That's a lascivious look in Deakin's eyes, and it's directed at me as well as at Rod this time. And I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.


	2. Chapter 2

I can't take my eyes off him. I know I'm staring, but that knowledge isn't helping me to do anything about it. He looks fantastic. I mean, he's always looked good in that damn leather jacket that he practically lives in, but leather trousers too? It's enough to blow your mind. It's certainly blowing mine.

"We've got about half an hour to kill before they're likely to turn up," Rod comments, his mouth close to my ear so that I can hear him over the noise of the music. 

I can feel his breath hot against my ear. I'm annoyed at myself for liking that feeling as much as I do. I'm the bloke's superior, for God's sake. He's the one who should be quaking in his boots with any passing comment from me. _He's_ the one who should be feeling as though he's about to melt from pure unadulterated desire. Not me. Uh-uh. This is not in the rulebook.

I try to keep my voice normal as I reply. "What say we get completely sozzled on the CID expense account?" I suggest, raising my eyebrows. "We can always say that we had to drink to excess to keep our cover."

"True. Although..."

He looks me up and down, that infuriatingly superior look on his face again. I know I look okay. I must do. Enough of the low-lifes in here have been eyeing me up. Of course, I don't come anywhere near Skase. He just looks at home with the rebel look. Me, I prefer something a little more preppie. These tight jeans are playing _havoc_ with my privates. And that's _apart_ from the fact that I feel as though I might as well be naked. I sure as hell feel as though I am with _his_ eyes on me.

"Although," he continues. "With that little outfit of yours, I think you'd be hard-pressed to give the game away..."

I can feel myself blushing. "It was all I had. I don't have a wardrobe full of leather like you do."

"You make me sound so kinky!"

He's laughing now. Laughing _at_ me. I want to die; only that would mean I couldn't look at him any more. And I don't want that. I don't want that at all.

"Kinky?"

He's not going to win. I'm better than this. He's not going to know he's affecting me - even though right now all I can think about are the things I'd like to be doing to him. He's not going to know that he's turning my insides into a churning lake of fervour. John Boulton fights his own battles. And he always wins them.

"Rodney," I drawl... acting now... deserving a Tony for my efforts. "Compared to this place's general clientele you're a monk in training."

"Only in training, Gov?"

"I don't think fully fledged monks have leather fetishes."

I leave him to splutter a little over that one while I order us both drinks, grinning at the barman as I hand over one of the wad of twenties I grabbed from Deakin before I'd let him go home for the night. Home to his sad little existence, where he's probably already fast asleep in bed by now. Alone. 

Not that I can talk.

As I hand Rod his drink he opens his mouth as if to say something and then snaps it shut again.

"What's wrong, Rodney," I ask, grinning. "Still trying to think of a comeback."

"Not necessary, Gov," he drawls, the arrogant look back again. "After all, I may be the one _wearing_ the leather, but you're the one who can't take his eyes off me."

I can feel myself turning crimson, so I turn back towards the bar, covering my blush with a large gulp of my pint. "In your dreams, Skase," I snarl, covering my embarrassment at being caught out with my usual nasty tone.

I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head as he replies.

"My dreams, Gov?" he asks, his voice only _just_ loud enough to be heard over the music. "Or yours?"

I'm going to win, but by God this guy is a bloody good player. He can cut me down with just a couple of words and, at the very same time, make me want him more than I've _ever_ wanted any man or woman before. He knows how to play the game, does Rod Skase. And he's got a fine repertoire of moves. He's not going to beat me, though. No one's ever done that before. And he, as sure as hell, is _not_ going to be the first. Not if I can help it.

"Save the flirting for the regulars, Rodney," I drawl, turning back around now that I have the hue of my face back under control. "I'm sure they'd appreciate it a hell of a lot more than I do."

"You think so?" Rod raises an eyebrow at me.

"Definitely," I reply firmly, willing an uninterested look onto my face.

_You may be good at this game, Rodney,_ I think, my eyes locked on his face. _But you're playing against a pro now. And you're going to go down in a screaming heap, my arrogant friend._

"Something wrong, Gov?" he asks.

Damnit. Why the hell do my thoughts always have to be so damn legible on my face?

"No, no, nothing. Don't concern yourself, Rodney."

"I wasn't."

The words are said so flippantly and yet they cut into me like the sharpest knife. When exactly did it start to matter what this arrogant prat thinks of me? If someone could be so good as to tell me, I'll find a way to go back and change the moment - if not delete it entirely from history. It's cheating, that's what it is. How the hell does he expect me to play the game when he can turn me into a stuttering imbecile with no more than a look? 

Referee? 

"Well, _don't_."

Not much of a come back this time, I'm afraid. I'm too busy trying to untie the knots in my stomach; too busy trying to ignore the scent of his cologne. C.K. I think. Of course it could just be one of those bent rip-offs you always get the scrotes selling on Oxford Street. It would be a little out of character, though. Unless his whole superiority act is just an act. 

Just an act? No, if there's one fault of Rod's that stands out a mile from all the others, it's his ability to be read like a bloody billboard. No fishing in between the lines with this fellow. What you see is what you get. Or what you _don't_ get, in my case.

Not that I'd want it anyway. He might be a damn fine looker, but this is one catch you'd throw straight back. Let your guard down for a second with this one and you'd find yourself head over heels in love - and completely alone.

Rod nods to a place somewhere over my right shoulder. "Barratt's here," he murmurs. "He's looking mighty fine too!"

From the evil grin on Rod's face, I have a feeling that I really don't want to see.

"If I turn around, am I going to be blinded?" I ask.

"Quite probably."

I can't resist. It's the car crash phenomenon. You know you're going to see something gory, but you just have to slow down to look anyway. I'm as curious as any ordinary punter. And the thought of a major crim in full gay club get up is too much to resist. I turn around.

"Oh my god!" I squawk as I quickly turn back again before the sight is engraved on my memory for life. "That's atrocious!"

"I warned you," Rod shrugs.

"Red rag to a bull, Rodney," I throw back.

"I wonder how long it took him to squeeze into those trousers," Rod muses, casting a disgusted look over my shoulder.

" _I_ want to know what possessed him to wear that body shirt!"

Rod frowns. "Do you have something against body shirts?"

I regard his own shiny black number, stretched taut against his chest as he puts his hands on his hips in (mock?) indignation. Do I have a problem with body shirts? Oh _hell_ no!

"Only on him," is my cool reply though.

"True," Rod shrugs. "Not many people can carry off the look well."

"Oh, and you do, do you?"

Here’s that arrogant look again. "It's not like I dress like this all the time, Sarge."

"You sure about that?"

"Positive. It's only when I'm pretending to be gay for the sake of a lousy late night obbo."

"So you've never considered..." I let my voice trail off, unsure if I really want to know his answer. Whatever it turns out to be.

"I don't know, Sarge. What do you think?"

What do I think? Huh. That's a laugh. Who can think at all with his eyes staring right into mine like they are right now? Somewhere in the tattered remnants of my mind there are a few disassociated - and lustful - words, but nothing worth uttering. Nothing _decent_ enough to let out of my mouth.

"I _think_ that you should shut up. Fielding's right behind you."

Someone up there has decided to show me a little mercy. It's almost enough to turn a hardened atheist to religion. Almost.

"Would it be a mistake for me to look?" Rod grins.

"Most definitely."

He casts a quick glance over his shoulder and immediately bursts into laughter. Luckily it's not enough out of place in a joint like this to cause any eyes to turn. Well, none that haven't already been casting surreptitious looks in his direction for the past thirty minutes, anyway.

" _Someone's_ taken his idea of homosexuality from bad, redneck movies," he splutters.

"Or Julian Clary," I grin. "I mean, _really_."

Pastels? Feathers? Lace? Oh dear God, this particular scrote is a walking feverish nightmare. I wouldn't be surprised if this entire obbo goes bust, simply because Barratt's too embarrassed to be seen anywhere near him. I hope not. It would just be too, too much to have been forced to endure this night of lustful hell without the carrot of a decent result at the end of it.  
Fielding spots Barratt in the crowd and makes his way over to him.

"So what now?" Rod asks. "Should we split up or something? Try to get close enough to hear?"

"Nah." I shake my head. "Split up and we'll blow our cover soon enough. In case you haven't noticed, there are a hell of a lot of eyes on you tonight. Get rid of me and they'll surround you like a pack of horny wolves."

"Oh, I don't know," Rod drawls. "Sounds quite fun, really."

"Yeah? Carry on like that and I _will_ leave you to them!"

Rod smiles. It's a smile that shows that he's quite positive that I'll do nothing of the sort. God it'd be nice to have that sort of confidence in your own greatness. "You can if you want, John..."

Damn him. This is an attempted mindfuck, pure and simple. Who the hell does he think he is? He's not just _breaking_ the rules now; he's tearing them into bite sized pieces!

"John?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "It may be eleven pm, Rodney, and we may be in a gay bar of all places, but we're still working. Which means no first names with your superiors and you know it."

He doesn't even blink. The bastard isn't affected by anything I say. Prat. "Don't you think they'll get a little suspicious if they hear me calling you Sarge, Sarge?"

I hiss a sigh of exasperation through my teeth. "Well, when they're in hearing distance you have every permission to call me John. Until then, though, don't get too cocky."

"Cocky?" Rod laughs. "You're one to talk!"

Thankfully I'm saved from more of his teasing by the arrival of Barratt and Fielding at the bar. 

"That's convenient," I say quietly. "It’s always nice when the crims save you the trouble by coming to you."

"Too right."

We move a little closer so that we can make out their words.

"I can't believe you actually made me come 'ere!" Fielding is squawking. "I've never felt so embarrassed and out of place in my life."

"I would 'ave thought you'd be used to the feeling by now," Barratt snarls.

"Oh very funny." Fielding gulps down his freshly ordered scotch in a matter of seconds. "When you've finished mocking me, 'ow about you fill me in about tomorrow?"

"What? You don't want to mingle a little first? 'Ave a bit of a boogie?"

"Oh yeah. _Just_ what I want to do. You know, Barratt, I think you like this joint a little _too_ much, if you know what I mean..."

"Fuck off, Fielding. I'm no faggot."

"Well goddamn tell me the plans, then, so that we can get the 'ell out of 'ere then!"

Barratt casts a look around the room, eventually ending up staring coldly into my eyes. He frowns before turning back to Fielding. "I don't know," he says slowly. "I'm not so sure this place is safe, after all..."

I throw Rod a worried look. "I think he's clocked us," I mutter. "He's definitely suspicious. I felt like he was trying to look right inside my thoughts just then."

"I guess we'll just have to make him feel comfortable again, then," Rod says softly, casting a glance in the direction of our two targets.

"And how are we supposed to do that, then, Rodney?"

"Easy," Rod shrugs. "It's all just an act, you know."

I have no idea what he's getting at. Well, at least not until he grabs me roughly and shoves me up against the bar so that there's absolutely no way that Barratt and Fielding could fail to notice us.

"What's say you and I get out of here?" he asks loudly, his arms keeping me pinned firmly against the bar.

It takes me a moment, but I soon catch on. "Sounds like a plan, Rodney," I reply just as loudly.

He smiles down at me. "I really like the way you call me that, " he comments. "I mean, when the others do it, I can just hear the scorn in their voices. It's different with you, though."

"Yeah?"

I think about it. I guess I do use the name fairly affectionately. I haven't really considered it before. Then again, before tonight, I certainly hadn't realised the complete depth of my desire for ol' DC Skase. Things change.

"Yeah."

"I kind of liked you calling me John," I admit gingerly. "Even if it _was_ uncalled for."

I'm intensely aware of the feel of his body pressed up against mine, holding me hard against the sticky wood of the bar. The leather he's clad in scrunches quietly with every hint of movement and the smell of his cologne is so strong now that I feel as though I'm becoming drunk on it. It's so him. I must remember to see if I can find out whether it _is_ C.K. Sniff a few bottles in Marks and Sparks or something. That's if I survive tonight.

"Good."

He's so close that I can feel the heat of his breath on my face. I feel like I'm losing more than just the game right now. My sanity is another thing that readily comes to mind. Sanity? Hell, who really needed that anyway? I'm quite prepared to trade it all in just for these few moments of such goddamn close proximity to this man.

"What else do you like?" he murmurs.

I frown. They're not going to be able to hear him if he doesn't speak up. Not that I really care any more. And here's that look again now, only it seems quite different from this near to the source. Challenging instead of arrogant. I wonder if it's always this way, or whether I'm just creeping closer to that line that divides sanity from the funny farm. I doubt I really want to know.

His hands seem to not so much press me against the bar, now, as they seem to be holding my body close to his. I never knew delusions could be so damn enjoyable. Then again, Rod's never been the one putting on the act in the past.

"I like you holding me like this," I admit.

This may just be an act, but they say you should put aspects of your own self into the role, don't they? The way I'm going, I'll be down at Covent Garden in no time. I wonder if I could take him with me...

This is going to be the death of me. The rulebook's been discarded entirely. And I'm enjoying this act entirely too much.

There's a flicker in Rod's eyes. Can he tell I'm not acting? Does he somehow know what he's doing to me? And, more to the point, is it going to make any difference at all to my actions for the rest of the night? Somehow I doubt it. If I've already lost the game, then I guess I might as well take the screaming heap option.

I don't know why I ever thought I could win in the first place.

"You do?"

"Uh... yeah."

He moves even closer... suddenly... awkwardly. His hands aren't so much pressing me now as caressing me. And his arms are tight around me now. Oh dear _God_ I approve of this particular script.

"What about this?" he asks quietly, mouth right beside my ear.

His breath tickles a little. In a good way. 

"More so," I finally manage to get out.

And there's no other way to describe what's happening now but to say that he's holding me, his heart's thumping actually making its way through the fabric of both our shirts. But this is _too_ close to save embarrassment; too close for me to pretend it's just an act. With our bodies pressed together like this, he's got to be able to _feel_ it's more than a little improvisation. My body's always been a traitor to me, but this has got to take the cake. It's not like you can hide anything in trousers as tight as these.

"Yeah. I can tell," he says finally.

I can tell I'm blushing bright red. This is possibly the most embarrassing moment of my existence so far, and yet I don't want it to ever end.

"I think they've probably got the idea by now," I murmur.

"You never know," Rod smiles down at me. "You know these crims. As thick as two of the old proverbials."

I grin weakly. He's going to make this as big a victory as he possibly can. I should have expected it, I guess.

"But still..." My voice trails off. I can see he's not going to listen to anything that I say. He's the one writing the script, now, and he's going to write it however he damn well pleases. I just hope that, whatever he deals out, I'll be able to show my face at the nick tomorrow. Or any time in the future, for that matter.

"No buts." His expression is unreadable. Always has been, really. I don't know what fit of ego made me think I ever knew him. Open? Every little thing about this man is firmly set between the lines. Perhaps I realised it even before now, but just wanted to hold on to the delusion. 

This game was lost months ago.

I lean back against the bar more heavily, trying to get a little distance between the two of us - at least around the area of my crotch. God, what must the guy think, with his superior as hard as nails pressed against his thigh? I wonder if this constitutes sexual harassment. Can't do. He's writing the script. I'm just a puppet for him to manipulate.

He's not going to let me go. He pulls me in even tighter - I hadn't realised it possible - and cups the back of my head with one large hand.

"You should let your hair grow out a little again," he comments now, as if we're just making small talk on the tube. "I liked it like that."

"Uh... Maybe I will," I stutter.

And then suddenly he's leaning forward and down and those are his lips that are pressed soft against my own. And it's just an act but this is heaven nonetheless.

I can taste his lager on his lips as they tease me, driving all thoughts from what little remains of my mind. I want more than just these soft, warm caresses, but I dare not take it for myself. Perhaps he can read my mind, his tongue gently invading my mouth; brushing lightly against my own. Or perhaps this was always in the script; perhaps it was written long ago. Although the playwright doesn't seem quite as clear, now.

As we kiss, I shyly reach up a hand to touch the hair I've so often admired. It feels as though he's smiling around my mouth, but I'm not about to pull away so that I can find out for sure.

And I may be wrong, but I doubt even the greatest actor could manufacture the hardness pressing up against my stomach. Which suggests that it could be my doing, instead of a script at work. It's my turn to smile through the kiss, although I'm not about to take my lips away to do it properly.

I don't know how long we kiss for, but I do know that when we finally pull away, Rod's hair is a mess, and his lips are red and swollen. I'm sure I look just as bad. Probably worse, as I just _know_ my face is covered in a foolish grin.

"You win," I murmur, when I finally have the breath to do so.

"Who's competing?" Rod shrugs.

I look around; eyes still not willing to open entirely.

"Typical," I laugh.

"What?" Rod's frowning now. Great.

"Barratt and Fielding are gone. We put on this incredible act, and they didn't stick around to see it!"

The frown only grows more stormy. "So it was just an act, was it?"

What can you say to that? I guess you just have to go for broke at a time like this. He's worth it. The guy's a complete prat, but by _God_ he's worth it.

"Not on my behalf," I shrug, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

Slowly - agonisingly so - the frown is replaced by a wide grin. "Me neither."

Is that shyness I detect in his voice? Surely not. I mean, this is the man in possession of the ego that ate New York. I must be imagining things.

"You start at nine tomorrow?" I ask as casually as possible.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well..." I can't completely control the evil grin that's making it's way onto my face. "Well," I repeat. "Your place is quite a drive from here, isn't it?"

He nods, the expression on his face attesting to the fact that the man's quick to catch on.

"Which means that you'd have a lot more time for sleep if you stayed with me tonight," I finish, eyes intensely studying his own.

"True," he nods. "Although, I can't guarantee that I'll be using the time productively, sleep wise."

I can't keep the stupid grin off my face. "Who wants guarantees anyway?"

He smiles and nods towards the door. "Shall we?"

"Definitely."

Just an act? Hell no.

 

****

FIN


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